Dimenticata
by Jubilee3
Summary: She will wake up, and it will finally occur to her that she can’t remember her own name. The cot will be foreign, the scratches will be upsetting, and she will cower in the corner until one of them comes... Then she will meet the shadows all over again.


**Disclaimer**: I am oh-so-grateful that I don't own Azkaban prison. Nor do I own anything copyrighted rightfully to J.K. Rowling. May her tolerance of fan fiction last longer than her last book.

**Special Note**: If you've ever sat up in the late hours of the night, contemplating the similarities between hell and Azkaban prison, then you know exactly where this fic came from. ;D

**_Dimenticata_ **

It didn't use to be like this.

At least, she didn't think it had been.

It's hard to remember, sometimes.

* * *

There aren't any windows.

But there _should_ be.

She knows that there should be windows.

In fact, she's so certain, that she spends hours clawing at the granite, trying to make an opening so that she can see out. It isn't right that she can't see anything but granite. _They_ should have given her windows.

If she turns her head, now, then she can still see the red stains in between the stones.

Sometimes, it's hard to remember where they came from.

* * *

The seconds of a day tend to blend together into one giant whirlpool inside of her head.

When this happens, she has to be careful not to make any sudden movements, or else some of the seconds might slip right out through her ears.

Sometimes, the seconds move slowly, stretching out into an eternity. Other times, they spin so quickly that she has no choice but to clutch her ears until they become numb.

Because none of them can ever get out.

_Ever_.

* * *

She hates it when _they_ bring her food. Those black creatures that suck out all of the heat from her cell.

She's hungry all the time, and it's like there are claws inside of her, pulling at her entrails in a desperate search for food. They tug and pull for hours, sometimes, never finding anything.

But when _they_ come, _they_ bring the shadows with them, and then she can't eat, at all.

She's too busy screaming.

* * *

There is a man who comes to visit.

A man with pale hair and pale eyes.

In fact, he's so pale, that whenever he moves too quickly, he becomes a white blur.

She hates it when he moves, because then she gets confused by the blur and has to find him again in the darkness. It's hard to find him.

The man always puts his hands through the bars.

Palms upward, he reaches out to her. He calls her name and pleads desperately, but she never gets too close, because there are things crawling on the bars.

Things that move and pulsate, sometimes green, sometimes red.

They don't touch the man, but she knows that if she were to venture near, they would crawl onto her and then burrow underneath her skin. One of them did that once, and she had to scratch and scratch at her arms to get it out.

But she only managed to get half of it, so sometimes she can still feel the rest of it moving around inside her.

After the man leaves, she always wishes that she could remember what it is that he calls her. Sometimes it seems really important.

But then she goes to sleep, and all of those thoughts have washed away by the next time that she opens her eyes. It's too hard to keep certain things inside of her head all the time.

But sometimes it seems really important.

* * *

She doesn't recall a time when sleep was ever a restful thing.

There are people in her dreams whom she doesn't know.

They seem to know _her_, though.

There's a woman with dark hair that likes to rub her back and hum lullabies under her breath. It should be soothing, except that it's not. The woman doesn't have a face. There's a blank, flesh-colored space where features should be. When the woman comes, she has to cover her eyes so that she can't see the blank space. But the lullabies can't be blocked out, and they tell of things that she never wanted to hear about.

There is a boy with pale wrists who likes to draw on her. He uses his wand, and digs and carves out intricate designs into her wrists that she can never see because there is so much blood. The boy always promises to let her draw on him in reciprocation, but then he will jump away at the last second. His wrists always remain unmarked.

There is also man with a face like a snake. He likes to bury his long fingernails —_claws_— in her wrists. It's always her wrists. If she screams, then he crams long, pink ribbons into her mouth—ribbons that would have been perfect for a little girl that likes to try on her mother's pearls. She chokes, and he laughs at her.

Sometimes, when she wakes up, they're still there.

* * *

There is something worse than her dreams.

The shadows.

When they come, she hides under her cot and cries until they go away.

She doesn't like the shadows. They don't behave the way that shadows should. They come through the bars, and they pull at her hair and scratch at her face. They hiss and spit, until she is shrieking for help.

Help never comes.

Sometimes, they take the shapes of people.

_Red_ people— covered in blood.

There are pieces of them that are missing.

Every which way that she turns, they're there in front of her. A whole cell full of red people.

If she can't get to her bed, then she'll huddle into the corner, and she'll scream and scream...

Then there is laughter.

She hates the shadows.

* * *

There are days when nothing seems familiar.

She will wake up, and it will finally occur to her that she can't remember her own name.

The cot will be foreign, the scratches will be upsetting, and she will cower in her corner until one of _them_ comes with food.

Then she will meet the shadows all over again.

* * *

But then there is a different kind of day.

Sometimes, Pansy Parkinson sits straight up on her soiled cot, and she knows exactly who she is.

She _knows_.

She knows that she's in Azkaban prison— for life.

That the thick, crusted substance underneath what's left of her fingernails is her own blood, and that her hair —her once beautiful hair— is matted and crawling with lice.

She also remembers.

_Everything_.

She remembers that Draco Malfoy, the boy who was supposed to take care of her, ended up turning traitor at the last moment for the good side.

Yes, the side that locked her up without a trial after she made the mistake of trying to contact him.

She remembers all of the promises that had been made to her over the years— promises that she readily believed with the naivety of a girl who had always had the benefit of being told what was best by the people who _knew_.

And then Pansy will become so furious that she'll scream herself hoarse and pound against the bars of her cell until bones threaten to crack.

She'll throw herself against the stones and tear at her hair, all the while knowing— just _knowing_— that everyone else is still out there— that Draco will be coming back again for another sympathetic visit to his condemned friend.

The friend who used to hold him up after he'd had too much to drink.

The friend who gave him his first kiss, and then so much more...

The friend who had been wearing his mother's wedding ring right up until they stripped her down, dressed her in a soiled sack, and then threw her into a cell.

* * *

Memories and revelations will make Pansy scream vows of revenge— vows that will echo back to her from down the long, empty corridor.

The vows will hold all of the hate that one person could muster in the midst of a blind panic.

And when the roaring in her ears has stopped— when she's finally collapsed into an exhausted heap on the ground— then she'll plan out her defense, starting with the letter that she's going to write to a prominent barrister who specializes in getting off children who have become mixed up in messes much bigger than them.

Because that's what happened.

Pansy never meant for any of this to happen. She didn't want to hurt anyone. She was just following orders.

Yes, and once she, herself, has explained to the judge about Draco and her parents and the Dark Lord and everything else, he'll understand.

He'll have to.

Yes, yes, and she'll be acquitted of all charges. They'll allow her to go home.

Her parents will come and get her, and she'll be able to sleep in her own bed, again.

* * *

But none of these things will ever happen...

Pansy is never going to see her bed again, nor will she ever go home.

Her parents are never going to come. Even if they're still alive, then they have more important things to worry about than coming to fetch their wayward daughter— like avoiding her fate.

She's never even going to be able to say any of the things to Draco that she feels need to be said. She'll never be able to ask him _why_.

Why he chose _them_, instead of _her_.

She won't _remember_ to.

Because Pansy has to go to sleep sometime.

She can't help it.

No matter how hard she pinches herself, sleep always wins in the end...

And everything from those kinds of days is wiped clean all over again.

_

* * *

_

__

_Finis_.


End file.
